


The Darlington Substitution Scandal (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [86]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Freckles, Impersonation, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Nobility, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 21:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A freckle is in the wrong place – and that, according to Sherlock, will lead to murder! The first of two cases that would take him and John to God's Own County, Yorkshire.





	The Darlington Substitution Scandal (1888)

I have known my friend take on many cases that brought little or no financial reward (not that he needed it), whilst he would often reject cases for a variety of reasons. I will not embarrass the leading politician of the Eighties who turned up at 221B one day absolutely one hundred per cent certain that Sherlock would take his case, then added to his faux pas by demanding that I not be present. I have rarely seen my friend angry, but had the politician in question not taken the hint and left when he had, I truly feared that violence might well have ensued (although I would probably have provided a degree of medical assistance if asked - probably). Similarly, Sherlock accepted cases for many and varied reasons, but few had such a strange starting-point as the Darlington Substitution Scandal, or as my friend preferred to call it, 'the Mystery Spot'.

Mr. Jolyon Torquhar-Maughan (better known as Lord Darlington, the title he inherited on his father's death some years earlier) was, at the time of this story, one of the rising stars of the government, and confidently expected to be appointed a minister in the next reshuffle. As I have mentioned before, the lines of party loyalty were more blurred back in those days, and it has to be said that he was in equal measure feared and admired by his opponents. Thus when ‘Lady Darlington’ was announced by Mrs. Harvelle one fine spring day barely a week after the Atkinson case had ended, I sat up expectantly. I knew from the society pages (which I did not read as often as Sherlock claimed!) that she was thirty-seven years of age, famously beautiful, and the daughter and heiress of the late steel magnate Mr. Lewis Bessemer. Her husband owned a large property in the Yorkshire Dales called Hartrigg Hall, as well as a hunting-lodge in the county of Sutherland in northern Scotland, much property in the Durham town that he took his title from, and a large house in Berkeley Square. They had had but one child, a son called Stephen, who was eleven years old.

Perhaps I did read those pages just a little more than I thought. And if I suspected that someone's expression was anything resembling a smirk, then that someone would not be getting any bacon tomorrow!

Lady Darlington was indeed beautiful, but one look at her frail features told me that this was a lady in distress. Mrs. Harvelle bustled away to bring tea and cakes, and Sherlock gently led our visitor to the fireplace chair before taking the seat opposite her. Surprisingly, her first words were addressed to me.

“I know that you keep records of your friend’s many successes, doctor”, she said in a melodious tone, “but if he does decide to take my case, I doubt that you will want to document it. I am not sure if even the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes can help me.”

“Perhaps you should explain exactly what help you require, my lady”, Sherlock said gently. She hesitated.

“I have read the cases that you have solved”, she said, “and noted that you manage to succeed with what is sometimes very little to work with. But more, I suspect, than in what I have to ask of you. Mr. Holmes, something is wrong with my son.”

We both looked at her expectantly, but it seemed that that was it.

“Surely Doctor Watson would be more suited to your needs?” Sherlock ventured.

“I did not mean medically”, she said, twisting her hands nervously. “I mean….. it is very hard to explain.”

Sherlock sat back and put his barley-sugar pipe into his mouth. 

“You are a lady of good breeding and excellent sense, Lady Darlington”, he said quietly. “You would not venture out into this city's horrible traffic merely on a ‘hunch’. When did you first notice that something was amiss?”

She took a deep breath.

“Last December, Jolyon suggested that it would be good for Stepehn to work on his estate in Yorkshire”, she said. “He was ahead with his school work, so I agreed. But when he came back a couple of weeks ago, he was so much more withdrawn than before. He is not exactly rude as such, but he used to be quite considerate of others, even the servants, and that has ceased. He dresses untidily, and takes little care of his appearance. He has even started taking his meals in his own room; Jolyon is not happy, but he allows, it for now. I am certain that something happened during his time in Yorkshire, and it makes me uneasy.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Does your husband make frequent business trips north?” he asked. She seemed surprised at the question, but nodded.

“For about a week every month”, she said. “He stayed with Stephen for three weeks when he started on our estates up there, although I asked him to spend longer at that time so that he could be sure our son was settling in. But Jolyon always regrets going, and sends me little tokens to show that he is thinking of me if he has to stay longer than his five days. Yet I am sure that he knows something about what happened to my son up there.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together as he thought.

“This is most curious”, he said at last. “First, has your husband always spent a fair amount of his time on his estates in the North?”

“Not until two years ago”, she said. “But there is a reason for that. You may remember that there was a minor stock market crash at that time, and Jolyon moved his investments out of London and to the North before it happened. The family has always held some lands in Darlington, which is just over the border with Yorkshire, but he expanded our interests there by purchasing a number of adjoining small farms in the Dales, he said to create larger, more economical units. That is another reason why he needs to be there for so long nowadays; these farms are all very remote.”

“Tell me about your own family”, Sherlock asked. She looked surprised at the question, but answered readily enough.

“My father was first cousin to the famous Mr. Henry Bessemer”, she said, “and a major investor at a time when his inventions were still considered unfeasible. Dear Uncle Henry – I always called him that – he never forgot that help, and those investments were returned manifold. Unfortunately my father died fighting in the Crimean War – he was some years older than his cousin – so my dear mother raised me, and managed all my investments for me.”

“I met my first husband Bill - Mr. William Allerton - thirteen years ago; it was the proverbial whirlwind romance. He was a local businessman, ten years my senior, but there was something very obvious between us. We married barely a month after we had first met, and I had Stephen ten months later. Unhappily he died in a mining disaster not long after that; he had been inspecting the place and was trapped underground. I met Jolyon at a ball in York five years past, and we were married a year to the day afterwards. Having Stephen adopted as his heir was, I made clear, a condition of marriage.”

“Has your husband changed at all of late?” Sherlock asked.

Lady Darlington seemed to have to think about that.

“He has been working harder than usual”, she admitted, “but he has not changed towards me. Indeed, if anything he is even more attentive than usual.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“I had a slight illness last month, and he cancelled his trip north to stay with me”, she said. “Just a winter chill, and I told him he should go anyway, but he insisted.”

Sherlock nodded. There was a long silence.

“There is something that you have not told me, Lady Darlington”, he said at last.

“Sir....”

“You are keeping something back”, Sherlock said firmly. “Something important.”

She blushed fiercely.

“What is it?” Sherlock insisted.

For a moment I thought she would refuse to say, but suddenly she spoke.

“It is such a silly thing”, she said, looking even more embarrassed, “and there is probably a rational explanation for it. It is just.... the way that things have been of late....”

She hesitated for several moments before continuing.

“Stephen has a small number of freckles, which I have always found endearing. Most are on his arms and back, but he has one slightly larger one on his left cheek. The other day I caught him looking at himself in the mirror, and it was only later, when I was brushing my hair before bed, that I realized it. A mirror reflects things, which meant that the freckle had to have been on his right cheek. I thought that I must have imagined it, and Jolyon had to try not to laugh at me when I told him. Sure enough, the next day it was on his left cheek after all.”

Sherlock looked worried by that. I thought instinctively of my own freckles, which I had always felt to be unmanly.

“Does your husband know that you have come here today?” my friend asked, glancing across at me for some reason.

“No”, she said. “I do not like keeping secrets from him, but I had a feeling that he would not approve. And it is not exactly something that I would wish to go to the police about. They would just laugh at me, I am sure.”

“Does anybody else know?”

“No. I told the servants that I was going shopping. I have a personal maid, but she is visiting her sick mother on the Isle of Dogs for a few days. Jolyon says that I am far too generous in giving her so much paid leave, but she deserves it and I did not wish her here when I came to see you today. Good as she is, we all know just how much servants gossip.”

“Then you must be sure to return with some purchases”, Sherlock said. “Lady Darlington, I must be frank with you. I see several possibilities with this case, and none of them are good. Danger may be approaching. Possibly even death, and it is vitally important that the person behind that threat does not even begin to suspect my involvement. If we are careful, we may be able to catch them.”

Her eyes widened in terror.

“Sir, you are frightening me!”

“Forewarned is forearmed”, Sherlock said. “Tell me, are there any special dates in your son’s life?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes”, she said. “there is his twelfth birthday, next month. There is a clause in the Darlington family estate which prevents any child under that age from being acknowledged as an heir, I presume because of the high infant mortality rate in olden times.”

“On what day?” Sherlock pressed.

“The nineteenth, just over three weeks from now.”

“I have a feeling that that date is important”, Sherlock said. “Does your husband travel north before that date?”

“He usually goes around the second week of each month”, she said, “but next month he plans to travel up on the sixteenth and return late on the twentieth. Stephen will have his birthday marked on the day after; he was unhappy about that. Do you fear that either of them are in danger?”

“It is a possibility that we must consider”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sorry that there is so little comfort I can offer, Lady Darlington, but just as Watson here must tell patients the way things are, good or bad, so must I tell my clients. I think it best, bearing in mind the risk, that you do not attempt communication with us before your son’s birthday, unless there is some change in your husband’s schedule. If we have anything to tell you, we shall of course contact you.”

“How?” she asked.

Sherlock’ eyes twinkled.

“A detective cannot reveal all his secrets, my lady”, he said. “Ah, I hear Mrs. Harvelle coming with our tea. We shall eat and drink, and not worry for a little while, then you shall do your shopping and return to Berkeley Square.”

+~+~+

The day of Lady Darlington's visit was one where I was working at home, finishing off my re-editing of the Greek Interpreter case (I do not know why this particular story caused me so much trouble, but it had taken months before it felt 'right' enough to consider sending to the “Strand” magazine). Sherlock had to go out, presumably in connection with the case, so I was left alone in the room. I was always absorbed in my work when writing, and had not Mrs. Harvelle sent up lunch, I would probably have forgotten to eat.

Sherlock returned that afternoon, and seemed more preoccupied than usual. I had finished my manuscript – he had already checked the original version – and took it down to post it off. When I returned we had a quiet dinner, and after some light reading in my fireside chair, I decided that I would turn in. I jumped when he spoke across the fire.

“John”, he said quietly, “how many times did you look in the mirror today?”

I pouted. Damn the man, he knew me too well! Lady Darlington's remarks about freckles had, predictably, aroused my own insecurities about all the ones on my own body, which I had always felt were something that a grown man should not have (yes, as a doctor I knew that there was no medical reason why they should fade with age, but something inside me had always hoped that they would). Sherlock must have known about how little I liked them, because he had never remarked on the fact.

Until now.

“A few times”, I admitted.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.

“Seven or eight”, I said gruffly. 

He rose and walked over to me, gently taking my hand. I looked down to where our rings rested against each other, and smiled. As I have said, he often seemed averse to any form of physical contact, so this was unusual, if welcome.

“You do know that some people claim that freckles are in fact angel kisses”, he smiled. 

“Now you are just embarrassing me!” I protested, if rather half-heartedly.

“I value all of you”, he said simply. “Your freckles help make you, you.”

I sniffed. But it was a manly sniff.

Yes it was!

+~+~+

Whatever Sherlock did as regards the Darlington case over the next two weeks I did not see, but one Friday (I was covering for a sickness absence), he cornered me before I left for work.

“Would you be able to accompany me to Yorkshire next week?” he said. “Or are you too busy at the surgery?”

Fortunately that year had seen a milder than usual winter, so I was able to affirm that I could travel North with him. The smile on his face was reward enough for what I knew would be an intolerably long train journey and indifferent hostelries.

+~+~+

I was surprised when, upon leaving Baker Street at a most unseasonable hour the following Monday morning, we crossed the Marylebone Road and continued south, rather than turning east for King’s Cross Station. 

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Berkeley Square”, he answered. “I wish to make sure that our target takes his train.”

“We are following Lord Darlington?” I asked excitedly. A chase!

“We have some inquiries to make in the White Rose County”, Sherlock said. “I fully expect that, despite the supposed backwardness of the area, word will swiftly reach His Lordship of those inquiries. I very much doubt that he will be pleased.”

“You think that he is the target?” 

“He will likely go to the station”, Sherlock said, and I noted that he had avoided answering my question. “I am less worried about him, and rather more about keeping his dear lady wife in this world rather than allowing someone to push her into the next.”

“You really fear that her life is in danger?” I asked. 

“I am certain of it”, he said.

“And her son?”

“The boy in Berkeley Square is perfectly safe.”

Our conversation was curtailed by our cab’s arrival in Berkeley Square, where we found a cab already waiting outside Darlington House. After about fifteen minutes Lord Darlington emerged with his wife, who he kissed farewell before mounting the cab and leaving. Lady Darlington seemed to wave to someone out of my sight on the other corner of the square before returning to the house.

“I arranged that she should do that as a signal”, “Sherlock explained. “All is well; her husband is headed to King’s Cross as planned. Had it been otherwise, she would have walked over to post a letter in the pillar-box opposite.”

“How did you communicate with her without her husband knowing?” I asked. He smiled.

“One of the capital's top pickpockets owed me a favour”, he said. “The gentleman in question said that he quite enjoyed the challenge of getting something into a lady's purse undetected rather than out of it!”

I smiled at that. He called up the destination to our cabbie, and we rumbled off in distant pursuit. Once at the station we followed Lord Darlington onto the platform, and eventually secured the compartment next but one to his. Sherlock explained that we would have to keep checking at each station to see if our quarry alighted early for some reason, but he fully expected him to travel some way into Yorkshire. Sure enough, we reached Doncaster for the change from Great Northern to North Eastern Railway rails with him still on board, and he remained there through Selby, York and Thirsk, before he finally left the train at Northallerton. 

Sherlock put a restraining had on me once we were safely on the platform.

“He will stay at the Station Hotel for the first two nights, as is his habit”, he said. “We must endeavour to find somewhere salubrious enough for two wandering souls on a week’s walking holiday in the Dales.”

We were fortunate enough to find a fair-sized inn in the town which let rooms this early in the season, though unfortunate to be caught in a swift downpour en route from the station. Sherlock’s hair looked even more of a mess than usual, and I was heartily glad when the landlord said that two hot baths could be made available. We squelched into our room and divested ourselves of our clothes; Sherlock seemed to be having particular trouble with his left cuff button, and growled in frustration at it. I chuckled.

“Come here”, I said, having got myself into my dressing-gown. I managed to extract his button from the thread it had caught on, and the sleeve hung loose. But as I went to take my hand back, he suddenly grasped my wrist, and stared straight into my eyes.

“Thank you, John”, he said quietly. 

That look was too intense. I blushed fiercely.

“It was only a button”, I said, almost defensively.

“Not just for that”, Sherlock smiled. “For everything. For being you. For being my friend. Thank you.”

I was saved by a knock at the door, and the maid’s voice calling out that our baths were ready. Somewhere, I suspected, my manliness was rolling its eyes and planning to see a lawyer in order to set about disowning me. 

Oh well. Let it.

+~+~+

The next morning, Sherlock went off up the dale to do whatever he had planned to do, and I went to the hotel to see what Lord Darlington was up to. I had feared that there were just too many opportunities for me to either lose him or, worse, be seen following him, but it turned out that my fears were groundless.

“He ordered a cab to take him to the village of Stainsrigg after breakfast, and luckily he did so at the reception desk within my hearing”, I told Sherlock later. “I talked with the receptionist; she told me it was about six miles away and that he often went there, so I took a chance and went on ahead to the place. It is a small place, not more than twenty houses I would say, and all clustered around a single dead-end road off the main valley road. When he arrived he went straight into a house; it was Rose Cottage, owned by a Mr. Thomas Drake. I was glad that I had brought my book, because he did not emerge all day. I had lunch at the inn, and was close enough when he left to hear him order the cabbie to take him back to the hotel. I thought that I would have to walk over a mile to Hardale, where the nearest station was, but I was lucky enough it run into a party of tourists, and they let me ride back to town in their carriage.”

Sherlock nodded at my tale.

“You did well”, he said, and I tried not to preen (I failed). “If he goes back to the village tomorrow, which I fully expect, make sure you have your lunch at the same inn.”

“Might that not run the risk of alerting him?” I asked.

“As things now stand, I would quite like for Lord Darlington to be alerted”, Sherlock smiled. “I think that the way things stand, it is the key to the whole problem.”

+~+~+

On Tuesday Lord Darlington did not return to the village, but went to the station and took a train to the town from which he took his name. It turned out that he was attending some civic function involving the opening of a new park in the town, and like most such events, it dragged on well into the afternoon (why were people at such functions so fond of the sound of their own voices?). He called in at a lawyer's after the event, then returned to the station where, annoyingly, I briefly lost sight of him. Fortunately I saw him boarding the train, and we travelled back to Northallerton. Sherlock would not reveal to me the results of his own labours as yet, but he seemed quietly pleased. 

The following day was the eighteenth, and Lord Darlington again went out to Stainsrigg. I followed Sherlock’s instructions, and extracted from one of the locals at the Pig & Whistle that the nobleman visited this place regularly, and that Mr. Drake was an old retainer from Darlington Hall, who had retired some years back to a house paid for by his late employer. It struck me as odd that the nobleman would go to such an expense, but the man told me that Mr. Drake had been in employment with both Lord Darlington’s father and grandfather, so maybe there had been a strong sense of obligation.

Unfortunately the nearest post office was, like the station, way back in Hardale, so I decided to walk there after lunch and communicate my findings to Sherlock, who had said that he would be back at the inn just after lunch. I had anticipated a quiet end to my day’s detective work, but on my way back to Stainsrigg I heard the sound of approaching hooves, and only narrowly managed to get myself off to the safety of a convenient copse before Lord Darlington was driven by, heading back towards Northallerton at a fair speed. I watched him go, and decided to return to Hardale to inform Sherlock, but on my arrival I found the post office about to send a boy looking for me with a telegram from the great detective. He instructed me to remain in Stainsrigg, and that he would be joining me there very soon. Puzzled, I did as I was asked.

Some little time later Sherlock arrived on horseback, with a second horse (presumably for me) on a leading rein. It was long dark, almost nine o'clock, and he looked even more windblown than usual. Refusing all questions, he asked that I show him the house that Lord Darlington had been visiting, then surprised me by marching up the path and thumping loudly at the door. It was eventually opened by the house owner, and some tense words were exchanged. Both men then went into the house, but only a few minutes later Sherlock returned, this time with company, a small boy by the size of him. 

“We must return at once to Northallerton”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sorry, doctor, but explanations must wait until later. Dark things may still happen if we do not act fast.”

“At least tell me who that is?” I asked, as I hoisted myself up onto my mount. I nearly fell off the other side at my friend’s response.

“Master Stephen Darlington.”

+~+~+

We returned not to the inn but the railway station. I was surprised, as it was now pitch dark and the last train of the day must surely have gone by now.

“I wired my brother Lucius, and he chartered a special for us”, Sherlock said. “We may be safe here, but I would rather not risk it. The train has a sleeper coach, so at least we can get some rest.”

“After you have explained everything”, I said, as Sherlock hustled his young charge onto the platform. He took the boy into the sleeper coach and presumably saw him to bed, returning only when the train was under way.

“This has been a dark case, doctor”, he said, looking tired from all his exertions. I too was exhausted, but wanted to know all before I could sleep. “Fortunately the gods have been with us, and I can safely say that we have prevented a double murder.”

“A double murder?” I gasped. He nodded.

“Lady Darlington and her son.”

I stared at him in shock.

“Around two years ago, Lord Darlington was made aware that he had a son of his own blood through an affair that he had had shortly before his marriage to Lady Darlington”, Sherlock began. “The lady, who was local to the Northallerton area, died not long after informing him of this son.”

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“I searched the official records of the churches in Wensleydale, and at Askrigg I found a lady whose age and death matched what I was looking for”, he explained. “Her name was Adelaide Drake, and yes, she was the niece of Mr. Thomas Drake.”

“Lord Darlington has a reputation in politics of being something of a gambler, and he comes up with a bold idea”, Sherlock went on. “He persuades his adopted son to join him on a trip North last December. In fact, what happens is that Master Stephen Darlington is kidnapped and then kept partially sedated, whilst Lord Darlington's natural son, William Drake, takes his place. Lord Darlington has some little time to train him up, and they then return south. The boy is entering puberty, so it is hoped that Lady Darlington will ascribe his changes in character to that, plus of course he is fortunate to have inherited some of the physical characteristics of his father.”

I sat in stunned silence.

“They only have less than a month to hold out, and the substituted boy will be away to school – a new one, of course. Once the hidden Stephen Darlington is twelve years old, his half-brother can inherit in his name. I doubt that the imprisoned boy would have survived for long after that date. You will also remember that Lady Darlington had her brief illness recently. That was her husband preparing to strike and remove her. He has returned to London by the evening train, but I wired ahead to his wife before meeting you, and I learnt at the station that she has left for Gaylord's hotel as I arranged. He will find only his replacement son when he reaches Berkeley Square, and a note telling him that the game is up.”

“And the mystery spot?” I asked.

“William Drake chanced to resemble Lord Stephen, except for that notable freckle”, Sherlock explained. “He applied a copy using theatrical make-up, but he forgot that in applying something in a mirror, the image is reversed. Though he thought that the freckle was on the left cheek, it was in fact on his right. Lady Darlington mentioned it to her husband who immediately corrected his son; presumably they hoped that she would just think that she had been mistaken.”

I sat back, still trying to piece it all together.

“The government?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“I suspect that by the time we reach London, Lord Darlington and his substitute son will have fled the country”, he said. “Perhaps it is better that way. The embarrassment for Lady Darlington would otherwise be terrible, rather than just awful.”

+~+~+

Sherlock was, as usual, right in his assessment. The following day, the newspapers were filled with the sensational disappearance of Lord Darlington, with all sorts of strange speculations as to the cause. He had managed to secure some of his investments before fleeing, but there was more than enough for Lady Darlington to take her son – the real Stephen Darlington, mercifully none the worse for his months-long ordeal – and retire to a quiet country life which, she later wrote in her thank-you letter to us both, she had always yearned for. Her son grew to be a fine man, and now has a large family of his own as well as the administration of one of our African colonies.

+~+~+

In our next case together, Sherlock would return to the White Rose County and try to find something of great value.


End file.
